


Peur

by consecrated



Series: A Thing With Feathers [1]
Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Non-Explicit, Reference to comics, Suicidal Thoughts, slightly AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 18:04:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11446185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consecrated/pseuds/consecrated
Summary: Miles realizes a few things about fear and hope. He's young, still learning, still discovering the world, but this isn't the world he wanted to discover. Mount Massive Asylum takes many things away from him, but gives a few back.✶A story about bad things happening and people being human beings and the Silky Variant being a good person.





	Peur

**Author's Note:**

> So I read that originally they planned on having Miles be sexually assaulted in the Outlast game, and to be honest when I played it before reading that, I kept expecting it to happen and preparing myself for it, and then it never happened. Which is good for me, because those topics are hard on me, but also good for me because now I have inspiration for a fic. It's not explicit, but it's one of the themes. I also vaguely reference the comics at one point, with Trager's backstory. 
> 
> Also the Silky Variant is my favourite Outlast character. Miles is a close second.

I fear for my safety  
You can see it in my eyes  
In an hour or two  
We will rise

Fear was something that Miles had taken lightly throughout most of his admittedly short life, he was young, as many news agencies and senior reporters liked to remind him, but he’d never had the respect for fear that the emotion-sensation-mechanism-instinct deserved. This attitude had been useful in his work, brazen and ‘brave’.

He didn’t feel brave now.

He respected fear now.

The terror, the cold icy adrenaline and anxiety, the tightness in his chest where his aching lungs struggled to keep him breathing as he heard footsteps and the jangle of chains nearby. Harbingers of death, or worse.

Miles had seen a lot worse than death here in this facility, seen things that would make him long for death. In brief moments, even just the constant fear exhausted him to the point where he wondered if giving up was such a bad idea. As the hours past and he seemed further and further from achieving freedom of Mount Massive’s depths, he realized how much he’d taken hope for granted as well, now that he had so little.

Fear and hope. Two things he’d learned to respect.

He wondered if the foolhardy, lippy, devil-may-care young man he’d been on the drive into the mountains was even alive anymore, if surviving Mount Massive meant he’d be changed forever, with this hope and this fear.

This lack of hope, and this belly full of fear.

The sound of chains was grew nearer.

Miles wondered idly, if he escaped, if he’d ever be able to look at a locker or a bed the same again.

It was cold.

He shivered.

He was tired of being trapped in small spaces, and yet, tucked away like this in the dark, he felt the closest thing to safety as one could in a place like this.

“Little piggy, little piggy…”

“Fuck-” He swore under his breath before he could stop himself, he’d never been adept at controlling his mouth. He’d say exactly what was on his mind to the exact wrong people, parties, job interviews, speaking at the exact wrong time. Such as when a tortured, delusioned psychiatric patient who was determined to seek out and kill him was nearby, perhaps within hearing range.

The locker door ripped open, and Chris Walker grinned at him with a torn face and a leering mutilated mouth.

“Please-” Miles never begged before arriving here. He’d beg now. He’d seen what could happen in this place, and he knew that death was not always quick or easy. Was he begging to be let go or killed quickly?

“Shh, little ghost, I’ve found you now.” Chris whispered, his hulking form pulling Miles roughly from his hiding spot, possibly dislocating his shoulder in the process.

Miles didn’t say anything more, fighting now. Words had failed him. He was a writer, a journalist, a reporter, not a fighter. He kicked out and lashed at his attackers eyes with his nails, but was immediately slammed into the ground and pinned under Walker’s immense weight of muscle.

Desperately, Miles tried to channel the fear he’d only just recently developed a relationship with, body on autopilot, fight, flee, fight, flee.

“Fuck off!” He screamed, twisted and writhing, avoiding being crushed by those heavy fists. Walker could kill him easily and the fact he wasn’t dead yet was not something that brought him that elusive hope.

His fear only grew.

As it did.

Here, in this place, all he had was fear.

“Don’t fight, little whore.”

Miles was not a little anything, while not a large man, he was a bit taller than average and only a barely slight in frame. The diminutive and infantilizing word tagged onto every strange and terrifying noun made him quake.

Underneath Walker, he _was_ little. He was small. Breakable. Fragile.

“Get off me-”

His cheek burnt with a sudden strike, tasting blood and feeling a tooth or two come loose in his mouth. Or maybe it was one tooth cracked in half. Who knew.

Walker hauled him up, glaring down at him, “Don’t fight me, little whore. I have to do this.”

Miles knew Walker had once been a soldier, had read it in one of the many documents he’d found littered about the decrepit asylum. That he acted out of delusional beliefs of security protocols and protection.

Somehow, staring up at Walker, with a mockery of a third eye torn into his forehead, he realized this was possibly his only chance at a quick death that had a point. A meaning.

Despite his words, that word that he’d heard all too frequently since arriving at Mount Massive (‘ _you look soft’ ‘come here, princess’ ‘don’t run from me you whore!’_ ) he suddenly saw something in the real pale, beady eyes looking down at him.

Miles saw salvation.

This was the end. The end of the fear, the running, the danger. It would all be over soon.

Hope. He never thought he’d find it here, in this brutes tight grip.

With the suddenness and severity of a heart attack, an alarm bell began blaring loudly. For a second, Miles thought he was the only one hearing it, ears failing him in the moments of his death, but Walker flinched back and looked around wildly as the sound continued to echo piercingly through the room and likely through the halls as well.

Before his brain could catch up, his legs were moving.

‘ _Wait, stop!’_ Miles thought as he ran. However, his body was working on it’s own agenda, keeping him safe, his instincts taking over, taking him away from Chris Walker and a swift decapitation and freedom and death and hope. ‘ _No, no, no.’_

He didn’t know what he wanted, he didn’t know what he had to do to here in this God forsaken place, he didn’t know anything at all.

His confidence had been stripped from him, and somehow that was worse than any fate that could befall him here.

He’d soon learn that he had a lot more to be taken.

 

* * *

 

“Thanks so much for coming by. We'll begin your consultation in a moment, I'll just need a second to wash up and…” Trager palmed the camcorder that felt like an extension of Miles’s own hand, “Oh, home movies!”

He placed it delicately on the bathroom sink.

Miles had never really stared into his own camera before. He was always on the other end, filming the world around him. The lens looking back at him made him flush with horror -- now he was as much a part of the asylum as the rest of the patients he’d recorded were. He was apart of this, he was here, real, alive, but maybe not for long.

This wasn’t where he wanted to be for his death, tied to a chair, staring at a naked pseudo-surgeon’s wrinkled ass. The restraints were tight and professional, not mere makeshift rope bonds, but he struggled against them anyway. Miles felt them bite into his wrists, rubbing his skin raw.

“You know I'm a bit worried how much time you've been spending with Father Martin.” Trager spoke casually, like he was making conversation, not sorting through sharp surgical tools while speaking to his captured victim. “I hope you haven't been letting him confuse you with his holier-than-thou bible thumping. No offense to the man, but I sometimes worry he might just be a little bit... crazy.”

“Fucking--” Miles almost laughed, but the blade held close to his throat kept him still and near silent, or as silent as he could be.

Trager’s tattered cheeks rose as he smiled under his equally tattered mask, “It's understandable, people get scared, they're as likely to turn to God as anything else. God died with the gold standard. We're on to more concrete faith now.”

Scared, God, was he scared. Fear, again his only companion while his camcorder sat a few feet away, turned against him.

Trager continued, admiring his dirty knives, “You have to rob Paul to pay Peter, there is no other way. Murder in it's simplest form, but what happens when all the money is gone?” He turned away from him, and grasped something sticking out of one of the urinals. “Well, money becomes a matter of faith. And that's what I'm here for.”

Miles blinked, and the man was standing before him, holding what looked like a cross between weed shears and a bone cutter.

“To make you believe.”

The pain was incredible. His vision went white. He could feel and both not feel the sensation of his finger being snapped in half and cut through, both numb through shock and yet some how torturously aware of everything that was happening. The scream he let out was nothing he heard come from his own mouth before, he’d heard it while on the job plenty of times, and even more on this particular job, but now it was his own screams echoing through Mount Massive.

“You paying attention?” The slap was not like Walker’s, but it jarred his skull none the less and made the gaps in his battered teeth burn and ooze blood. “Don't pass out on me, there's still a lot for you to absorb.”

Miles’ other hand, he knew it was coming, and yet there was nothing he could do. The pain came again, but it never really left, it just doubled and downed him, throwing him into a sea of agony he could only drown in.

Trager was speaking again, but Miles couldn’t make out the words. Sobs ripped from him, or were they screams, perhaps a combination of both. There was nothing but the pain. He didn’t even notice his torturer leave, not until he realized the only sounds filling the bathroom were his own pained and pathetic gasps.

Escape, escape, his body told him.

Let me die, his mind replied.

When it came down to it, the body really had it’s own will. Even the brain had defence mechanisms beyond the mind, secret protocols and background workings his mind wasn’t privy to. Right now, his body had been attacked and harmed and it wanted to escape, no matter how much Miles wanted to give up. His adrenal gland was pumping cortisol and adrenaline into his blood, his chest heaved, his heartbeat raced, his body wanted to live.

He was thrashing, so much pain left him unable to feel the restrains digging into his flesh, and then after an eternity or a few minutes, he was free. As free as he could be here in Mount Massive Asylum.

Miles stumbled to his feet and immediately collapsed against the sink, vomit and bile pushing its way up his throat, burning him from the inside.

As soon as he stopped throwing up, he couldn’t take a moment to catch his breath. He barely had enough mind to grab his camera in one bloody, disfigured hand before limping to the door, gait wobbly.

He was in a haze. Miles wasn’t a stranger to drugs, he knew what it was like to be high, and the intense waves of pain clouding his mind were almost similar. Everything was both heightened and dulled. Sensations, the world, everything.

Through the blanket of pain, he heard a voice. It wasn’t Tragers, it was a spoken whisper slurred and pained, much like his own. “Is someone there? Is someone there? Come closer.”

Outside the bathroom were hospital beds that Miles had seen while being wheeled in, in one of them, a man was suspended in a mockery of medicine. His limbs were held like when setting a bone, but his entire body was mutilated and stitched.

“I’m not a patient. I’m an executive, just like him. Like Trager.”

The poor ruined man continued speaking but Miles was fading in and out of consciousness again, and had to focus solely on remaining upright and cognitive. He heard the doctor’s name again, Wernicke, the dead man every soul in the asylum seemed convinced still lived. Wernicke, Wernicke…

‘ _Fuck’s sakes, if I’ve gotta live, stay awake!’_ He tightened his loosening grip on his camera, almost revelling in the sharp, new bolts of pain it brought.

The executive was shouting now, “He’ll find you! He’ll kill you! Trager! Trager!”

Miles stumbled backwards and did his best to run, but his body was failing him. The only thing that had been keeping him going, alive, now reaching it’s limit.

Usually he peeked around corners before turning them, pain made him blind and vulnerable, as he ran immediately into Trager’s chest.

“Now buddy! We haven’t finished our consultation.” Miles was shoved backwards, and he fell unceremoniously to the ground.

“G- Get t- the f- fuck away-”

“You know, I can’t decide what would be more helpful, cutting off your feet or cutting out your tongue.” Trager glanced backwards at the bound executive, “You want a little attention. Perfectly understandable. Well I'm here for you. I'll give you very special attention.”

Leaving Miles crumpled on the floor, he approached the bed. He could hear the slick sounds and gurgling screams as the man was killed, and he closed his eyes, tired of fighting.

He was exhausted. Physically, emotionally, psychologically, spiritually. He was tired.

“I heard him shouting.” Trager’s voice penetrated his stupor, “I used to work here, you must know. I was an executive of the Murkoff Corporation Research Development here. You know what happened? My reputation was tarnished.”

Miles felt hands gripping his coat, dragging him across the floor, “Don’t…”

“Some bitch made accusations. You know, the ones that ruin men’s lives. The ones no one can prove. What can I say, I’m a go-getter. What I want, I get. But next thing you know, I’m hauled off by the men in white. You know, in this light, you kind of look like her.”

Miles opened his eyes.

“She was a ginger, but she always had her hair pulled up in a tight bun. She always was a tight SOB, in more ways than one. Reserved, y’know.” He winked, running his hand through Miles’ short hair. “She was fatter than you, you’re quite slim.”

‘ _Please, God, if you’re there… not Father Martin’s God, not the Walrider, not the Devil, but the God that my mother believed in and I always scorned… please, fucking save me or let me die, but don’t leave me here.’_

He felt a hand against his jaw, and he closed his eyes again, but he had neither fear nor hope now, he was just tired, and didn’t want to see the face looming over him.

“You have the same eyes though. Hers were green, just like yours. Actually, so did Pauline-- that bitch investigator -- you _really_ look like her. She was a butch type of dyke lookin’ gal.”

Miles wondered if Trager had raped Pauline too. He wondered if that sound was Trager pulling at Miles’ belt, but he couldn’t feel anything. He wondered where God was.

“You’ve gotta tell me what you want out of this consultation, buddy. I could snip your unsightlies, if you wanted. Let me just get a look at what we’re dealing with here.”

Miles wondered what his mother was doing. He hadn’t spoken to her in years, their relationship had been rocky since he dropped out of college the first time, and they hadn’t spoken since Miles was fired from NBB news agency and he became a freelance reporter. He wondered if she was hanging laundry, because she hates dryers, or if she was reading a newspaper and thinking of him, or tending to her houseplants, or doing paperwork, it was late, maybe she was asleep, but she held his same penchant for insomnia.

“Buddy, you’re pretty for a guy. Y’know, it could be dangerous in here for someone like you. I know lots of crazies in here that would love to get a piece of this.” He felt a tongue drag across his neck, slow and lazily. “You should be careful.”

He opened his eyes, Trager’s face was very close to his. He noted the man had hazel eyes, bordering on green as well.

“Let's teach you the seven habits of highly eviscerated people.”

He felt something stab into his side, slowly, almost lovingly. The knife didn’t go deep, but twisted brutally, causing Miles to scream out and thrash underneath him.

“Easy buddy. Let me sell you the dream.”

Fear had given him many gifts and curses, saving him when it was almost the end. But now it left him frozen, paralyzed as his body was desecrated and penetrated, in more ways than one. There was nothing he could do. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t wonder.

He could feel everything and nothing.

He wanted to go to sleep.

Miles wonder of Trager would give him that, after taking everything else. He wondered if he would let him sleep.

 

* * *

 

When Miles woke up, he wasn’t in pain.

It was a surprise, considering the blood he was covered in, this time his own. He was naked, but everything seemed mostly intact, save his fingers and the shallow wound in his side, and the blood dried to his thighs. He was tied to the table, not unlike how the executive had been. Tortured executive, tortured reporter. Miles cursed under his breath.

He hated this.

Being weak.

Being tired.

This wasn’t him, this wasn’t Miles Upshur. The only reason he wasn’t in pain was because he couldn’t feel anything at all, his mind was three feet above him, disconnected from his body. He waited for it to come back, for his mind to come back, for the pain, but he remained stuck in a strange fog.

Miles stared straight up, hoping to catch sight of his mind up there.

“Come back.” He whispered. He’d take the pain. He just didn’t want to be numb, tired, and weak-- it was worse than death, it was like he was a ghost.

He heard footsteps, and didn’t wonder if it was Trager coming to finish the job. He didn’t care. He kept staring at the ceiling.

“Do you have an itch?” A mumbling voice echoed through the empty room.

Miles didn’t look over, he didn’t care. He shut his eyes though, as if that could stop him from hearing too.

“I have an itch.” The voice continued to whisper, “Will you be my friend?”

‘ _Stop. Go away. I don’t care.’_ The darkness behind his eyelids was comforting. He wanted to sink into it and disappear. It would be easy, he just had to let go. Let go. Let go of everything.

“Silky, silky, silky. Don’t be afraid.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Mile suddenly blurted out, surprising even himself. He didn’t open his eyes though, but didn’t hear the variant leave.

“Will you be my friend?”

“No.” Back in the cell block, he never responded to the variant’s words, muffled by the bandages wrapped around his mouth and face. He didn’t know why he did now, it seemed pointless to reply, pointless to do anything at all, but he did anyway.

“Don’t be afraid. I have an itch.”

“Don’t fucking care.”

“I have an itch.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Will you be my friend?”

“I hope you die.” Miles spat, opening his eyes. He didn’t, he didn’t hope that. Why did he say that?

“Silky, silky, silky.”

He glanced over. The patient was standing to his right, still wrapped up in his straightjacket and bandages. The one person who probably would help him but couldn’t. Though maybe he’d attack him if free, maybe he’d beat him or rape him or murder him. Maybe he was just as cruel as the others, like Walker, like Trager, like the twins.

Or maybe he was just stuck, just like Miles was.

“What’s your name?”

“Silky, silky, silky. You look silky, will you be my friend?”

“I’ll call you Silky then.”

“Do you like grapefruit?”

“Not really.”

“I have an itch. Grapefruit hurts me.”

Miles sighed, then winced. A dull throbbing had begun in his hands, at the base of the two fingers that had been taken from him. “Hey Silky, why are you in here?”

“Will you be my friend?”

“If you tell me why you’re in here.”

“Will you be my friend?”

He was getting nowhere with this. He wasn’t even sure why he was trying to converse with this guy, but it wasn’t like there was much else he could do. They were both tied up with nowhere to go, “Why are you in a straight jacket?”

“God spoke to me.” Silky murmured, “Does He speak to you?”

“I don’t think God likes me very much.” Miles said sardonically, “Did you hurt someone?”

“Holy water made grapefruit hurt me. Holy water to cure my roof sickness.”

“Have you ever met a guy name Wernicke?”

At that, Silky fell silent. It was unnerving, him standing there, mute. Despite his gag, he talked an awful lot, but now he was silent.

Suddenly, the patient turned and began walking slowly away, with the same gait he’d had while following Miles around the cell block earlier. He watched him go, almost disappointed. Almost.

He was alone again.

Alone and without a mind, and without a mindless friend to share the darkness with.

 

* * *

 

Miles didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep until he’d woken up. Someone was looming over again, and when his heart started beating faster at the thought of it possibly being Trager, he knew he was going to be ok, maybe, possibly. His heart was working again at least, maybe his mind would be next.

It wasn’t Trager. It was a patient he’d not seen before, and he was holding a knife.

When the fear came, he knew he could hope again, maybe, possibly.

Instead of stabbing him or slicing him or cutting off more extremities, the dead eyed patient pressed the handle of the knife gently into Miles’ hand.

“God’s suicide son told me you needed to escape.” The patient said, voice grating, eyes roaming and looking everywhere but at Miles. “Goodbye.” And with that, he left. Miles stared after him, the knife feeling cold and solid in his burning, throbbing hand. It felt real.

Miles felt real.

He gasped, agony suddenly shaking his body, tearing at his side, burning in his core and his pelvis, and his hand began to shake so hard he could barely keep a hold of the knife that might be his salvation.

A voice in his mind, which had descended back down and now was firmly stuck in the fleshy organ of his brain, whispered: ‘ _kill yourself with it.’_

Was that the escape the patient had meant? Escape from everything? Or escape from these bonds on his limbs, holding him tight to the table -- he saw Silky standing in the doorway.

“Will you be my friend?”

“Did you get that guy to get me this knife?”

“Will you be my friend?”

“What… what did you think I should do with it?”

“Will you be my friend?”

“I’ll be your friend if you tell me.”

“Escape.”

“Do you think I should commit suicide?”

Silky shifted from foot to foot, “Go home. Silky, silky, go home.”

“Home?”

“You don’t belong here.”

Miles stared at Silky, knife still loosely in his aching grasp. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he awkwardly positioned the blade to dig at the restraints on his right wrist.

Silky stood by, blindfold over his eyes. Miles wondered how he navigated the asylum without seeing, how he hadn’t been killed yet by Walker or Trager or any of the other sadistic inhabitants of the hell farm of Murkoff’s Mount Massive Asylum.

After a minute or two, the rope and leather wrapped around his wrist fell free, and he reached over to cut away at the rest. The thought of an ‘after’ hadn’t occurred to him yet. After he can stand, walk, find his clothes, he’ll still be stuck here. He’ll still have to run from Trager, Walker, the rest. And after that? If he survives, if he… escapes?

What then? Who will he be? Was all this worth it?

Miles gritted his teeth and kept hacking at the restraints. Running, hiding, escaping. This was who he was, for right now. That would have to be enough.

He would live.

With his left hand free, he slowly sat up, grunting as his side ached. He gripped the wound, glad to see it had stopped bleeding, putting pressure on it as though that would help. The pain only grew, and he exhaled sharply, instead focusing on getting his feet free.

“Let me just… I have a secret to tell you.”

He’d heard that before, and he glanced up at Silky, who stood by, blind, gagged, tied up.

“What is it?”

“You have to come close.”

Miles finished cutting off the last of his restraints, and shifted so he sat painfully on the edge of the bed, then stood, shakily, nearly falling almost as soon as his feet touched the ground. He realized quite clearly what a bad idea it was, him being naked and injured and vulnerable, here heeding the requests of a psychiatric patient in a straightjacket asking him to come closer. But while Miles was vulnerable, the other was completely incapacitated. What harm could coming closer do?

So he tried standing again, carefully putting one foot in front of the other. It took a few tries, still weak, knees still wobbly, but finally he managed to approach Silky.

“What is it?”

“Are you closer?”

He’d almost forgotten the patient couldn’t see.

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mhm.”

Silky paused, “I just wanted to see if I could hear your heartbeat. I bet it’s silky too.”

Instead of bringing back the fear, his words had Miles smiling. It was the first smile he’d had since entering the asylum doors. The man’s voice was soft, almost sad. It wasn’t hostile or eager or demanding, while slightly manic, it was just a statement. And for a second, Miles realized he’d forgotten that this was just a man. He wasn’t a monster or a creation, he was a human being who had a name, maybe a family, maybe a life outside these walls. He’d been brought here because he was sick and needed healing, and all these people had done was cage him and tortured him.

“Does your tongue hurt?” Miles asked suddenly. Silky’s tongue could be seen trapped between the bandages over his mouth.

“I have an itch.”

“Where?”

Silky was silent for a moment, as if surprised Miles had finally responded to his constant repetition.

“Where my wings would be.” Silky whispered, “If I could fly off of a roof, if I was an angel.”

Angels were usually depicted with wings sprouting from their shoulders, so Miles took a breath and reached out, “Here?” He began scratching over the rough fabric of the jacket, right at Silky’s shoulder.

Silky paused again, “To the left.”

So Miles scratched his itch.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t a hard decision to make. There were plenty of people roaming free that wanted to kill him, it seemed half the patients in here had been so brainwashed by Murkoff’s experiments, all they knew was violence. So it wasn’t a hard decision to make, if Chris Walker got to roam freely, got to swing his massive arms, got to see out of his cataracts ridden eyes, than Silky deserved that small amount of freedom here as well.

After Miles found his clothes, and he began to work on removing the bandages and restraints wrapped around the patient’s body, he pondered freedom. Miles wasn’t free, he was still trapped in here, just like the rest. But he was more free than he had been a few minutes ago, there were varying degrees of everything. Fear came as adrenalyn and and the power to escape his foes, but also fear came as paralysis, freezing him. Hope may come as an open door, letting him out, but it also came as a broken man whispering about itches and grapefruit.

Finally, pulling the last of the bandages off of Silky’s eyes, he stepped back. Silky was scarred, with deep ridges along his cheekbones and ragged flesh around his mouth, of course he was scarred, everyone here was, now Miles too. He wasn’t a monster though, he had just been hurt.

Neither of them were monsters. Maybe they had a future.

“Does that feel better?” He asked, not fearing an attack, not waiting for a betrayal.

Silky blinked. He had blue eyes. Miles was glad they weren’t green.

“Does that feel better?” Silky parroted, almost confused.

Miles smiled, and turned away, picking his camera up off the floor, ignoring the sting when it’s cold surface touched the ragged flesh of his stump of a ring finger, ‘ _I should really bandage these up.’_

“I’m leaving now.” Miles told him, “You don’t have to follow me, but you can if you want.”  

Silky blinked again, then nodded, but stood still, and watched Miles leave.

Hope.

That’s what he had.

If anything, if nothing else, that’s what he had. That couldn’t be taken from him.

The next time Miles saw Chris Walker, he felt fear. That wouldn’t stop, the fear wouldn’t stop until he escaped, and even then he was sure some part of Mount Massive’s particular brand of fear had been burnt into him for the rest of his life.

But when he saw Walker’s form lurking in the dark, stalking him, he didn’t freeze. He didn’t wait for death. He didn’t long for death.

Walker would keep on trying to kill him, keeping trying to fulfill his delusional duty borne of trauma and torture, and Miles would keep running.

Miles would run, limp, stumble on his way through the asylum, feeling fear and hope, having things being taken from him and given to him, until he finally felt the rising dawn’s sun on his face as he stood outside, free, no matter what.

 

* * *

 

_He seemed gentle. In his soul. Soft. Silky. He doesn’t belong here, his footsteps are loud and when I hear him open doors, he opens them roughly with a bang that startles me, but I can hear it in his breathing, in his aura, like a hum. God told me that he’s looking for a way out. Not the kind that I looked for, on the roof, looking for a way to fly up to heaven where I belong with the other angels, but a different escape. I hope he finds it. I can’t always say the things I want to say, the sentences get mixed up in the different processes I think them through, but he’s not scared of me, not anymore. I heard his heartbeat, it was slow, gentle, soft, silky. God will get him out, maybe in a swarm, maybe in a haunting, but He’ll help him. I have hope._

 

Seizing opportunity  
Right where it lies  
The sky will fall  
We will rise

Peacocks  
by the Mountain Goats


End file.
